Sounds to Die By: Sensory Ops, Book 1

by Nikki Duncan

  “Is this how it works for you, Beckett? Is this how you solve your cases?”

  She shifted her weight to her left foot and sighed. “You’re right. I’m being a bitch.”

  “Your words.”

  Not that he was going to argue. “I’m tired of slamming into concrete walls of maleness on this. Tired of not being taken seriously. Of being treated like I’m inferior and incapable of intelligent thought.”

  “So, I’m your solution?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And you come here with your mind closed and defenses up. What are you going to do if I disprove your theory?”

  “I’ll fetch coffee and bagels for a month,” she mumbled. She approached his desk to make her plea more personal. Maybe to get a better look at him. “I’ll accept what you tell me you hear, or don’t. I need the truth. All of it, one way or another.”

  Cabrera stood and pointed at a chair opposite the desk. “Give me the recording. Sit there.”

  She fished the disc out of her bag as she closed the remaining distance. “Thank you.”

  “I haven’t done anything.” He took the CD she’d made and turned away before she could get a good look at his face. He was dark and had strong bones. Even with her eyes adjusting to the light, she could see little else.

  “Don’t move. Don’t speak.”

  Clearing her throat, she sat in the chair. Reaching down to place her bag on the floor, her arm brushed the leg of the seat. She creased her brows, ran her fingers along the other legs. The entire chair was covered with corduroy. Flicking her fingernail across the grooves, she watched Cabrera walk to a cabinet beneath the desk. He bent down and slid the CD she’d handed him into a slot.

  Curious about the reason for covering chair legs, she scooted the chair on the floor. Not a sound. He’d covered the bottom too.

  “Stop moving.”

  Wow. That’s some sensitive hearing. Humoring him, she settled in to study him as best she could.

  He moved easily, but with a cautious alertness that kept his moves from being smooth. Effortless.

  “Does having the lights off somehow help you hear better?”

  “Aside from the constant buzz that sometimes interferes, it makes no difference.” He sat in his chair and rolled to the section directly in front of her. “Don’t speak.”

  Shrugging, she settled back and studied him in the flickering lights of his control panel. Judging from the shadowed intensity of his bone structure, the strong jaw and prominent cheekbones, she guessed he could claim some Latino lineage. His long and thick dark eyelashes remained unblinking for long stretches of time. He intrigued her despite his irritating arrogance. She wanted to study him in the light, but doubted he would allow them to be turned on.

  Cabrera pushed a series of buttons. The recording she’d listened to for the last day and a half flooded the room. All she could determine was that it had probably been made on a cell phone in a crowded club.

  She shifted cautiously on the chair, wishing it had a bit more padding. He lifted his head. An amber light from the panel before him hit his black-rimmed eyes like a fire reflecting off a glass of bourbon. Basic. Intensely predatorial and blank in the shadowy light.

  “Don’t move.”

  She nodded and resolved not to move again.

  “Don’t even nod.”

  He wasn’t looking at her. How could he know she’d nodded?

  Damn woman had called several times over the last couple days—all easily ignored. Now she’d slammed Ian’s back to the wall by showing up at his door. Apparently, she couldn’t follow a simple order to not move any better than she could take no for an answer. He didn’t like it, but humoring her seemed the fastest way to get her out of his way. Not that he’d ever been great at turning away people who managed to make it past Dante. They just never got past his guard.

  Besides, she intrigued him. Her determination called to him. And her heart had sped up when he asked if she knew the reporter.

  He’d accepted long ago that his biggest handicap was his inability to help everyone. He should have insisted that he couldn’t help. Insisted that she leave. Her case was important, he didn’t deny that. So were all the others that came to him.

  She distracted him. Her heart beat in an erotic melody. Bold and powered by almost tangible emotion. Her spirit filled the room and wrapped around him like an invisible cocoon. A disconcertingly comfortable one.

  She fidgeted on the chair. Flicked her nails—filed to short, square tips unless he missed his guess—over the chair fabric. It was an irritating, nervous tic that got most people tossed out to the waiting room.

  He didn’t like distractions. Yet, he allowed her to stay. She had spine and secrets that might be fun to reveal by peeling away their layers.

  She shifted on the chair. The balls of her feet rubbed the floor. “If you’re going to fidget, you can wait in the lobby. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there.”

  “Is that why you have only one hard, fabric-covered chair in here? To make people uncomfortable? And what am I doing?”

  “Yes. And you’re flicking your nails across the chair, sliding your feet and shifting your ass. Stop it, or go outside to wait.” She shook her head. He could imagine her rolling her eyes. “Don’t move your head either.”

  She froze. The moment she did, the whispered brush of thick hair against her silky blouse stopped. Only the excited pounding of her heartbeat remained.

  More accurately, her heartbeat and the scents wafting around her remained. Primarily, he noticed the lilac-scented perfume that didn’t overwhelm, but was instead subtle enough that he’d almost missed it until she had leaned toward him to place the disc in his hand.

  Turning his attention to the CD, he willed himself to not think about the woman inside the skin of the FBI agent trespassing on his space. Or to imagine what her skin would feel like as he slid his finger along her—

  Focus. He slowed his breathing, his own heartbeat, and directed all of his senses into his hearing. He backed the recording up and began from the beginning.

  The garbled quality of the recording indicated low-end equipment. It had likely been a spur of the moment recording. A crowded club where someone had shoved their phone in a pocket so it wasn’t seen. A soft fabric brushed against the microphone, making it difficult to decipher anything.

  He closed his eyes and tilted his head. Kieralyn’s staccato heartbeat moved to the forefront. Leaning forward, he dipped his head closer to a speaker. There. Beneath the brush of fabric, jazzy blues music, chattering voices, drinks being poured and dishes chinking together on trays, was a more private conversation. He fiddled with some controls and minimized the fabric noise.

  Working deeper, he separated the music and chattering voices into their own tracks until only the private conversation remained. The voices were still too muted to be clear, so he set to work enhancing them.

  It was a tedious, time-consuming task that he enjoyed. Somehow, Kieralyn managed to stay perfectly still the entire time he worked. Finally, he heard the speakers more clearly.

  Two men. One angry and foreign. South American. The other was local to Florida, but not Miami. There was still too much distortion to be certain which part.

  Ian moved to a section of the desk closer to Kieralyn. Her scent fluttered on the edges of his senses. He was absorbed enough in the sounds on the recording now that she didn’t distract him. Sliding a few levers, moving some away from him and a couple back down the control board, he sliced away another layer of distortion.

  Mentally running through the clubs in Miami that played the kind of music he’d heard and served meals on china—if he’d judged the clink of dishes accurately—he figured it for a high-class club.

  He pulled a map of the city into his mind. Jazzid at The Beach and Jazz on The Rocks were the two clubs in Miami that fit the requirements. Narrowing down which was the right club would only take a quick visit.

  Shifting that information aside, he turned
his mind to the CD. Even with the fabric pulled out, the conversation was difficult to decipher. He adjusted more controls and backed the recording up. He boosted the sound.

  “Did you…trouble?”

  “No more…usual.”

  “Then…black eye…busted lip? …deliver…unmarked.”

  Ian slid a keyboard toward him and typed what he could make out. The text wouldn’t show on a monitor, but he would be able to print it out for Agent Beckett. She and her team would have to fill in the missing bits of conversation.

  “The redhead…kicked…balls. Had…coming.”

  “El Dogo…pissed.”

  Ian’s fingers stumbled over the keys, only having typed El. El Dogo. The Bulldog.

  His gut knotted. He ran the recording back to make sure he hadn’t missed any breaks in the speech. That he wasn’t picking up a second conversation he’d missed. That he’d heard right and that it hadn’t been a mispronunciation or interference from another conversation. He couldn’t have heard accurately.

  “El Dogo…pissed.”

  He ran it back a second time. Had he created it in his mind out of desperation?

  “El Dogo…pissed.” He’d heard it.

  Fabric rustled against the microphone as if the person doing the recording was shifting for a better position. “…reminder…her sedated.”

  “Pick up…get…jazz…beach…” The rustling fabric made it hard to discern the information. Maybe a confirmation of one of the two clubs. Jazz on The Rocks was at the beach too. “El Dogo…there.”

  “…reporter…on to us.”

  “Follow her…or…join others.”

  Ian’s heart stalled. Twice El Dogo had been mentioned. He had to tell Agent Beckett what he’d heard. It might help with her case. But he didn’t have to fill in meanings.

  That could jeopardize his opportunity for answers.

  He listened longer, but the recording had stopped. There was no more information to be found.

  “I’m going to print out the transcript as I’ve been able to make it out.” He saved the individual sound files along with the original onto his hard drive. He’d be going over the recordings more to see if he’d missed anything. He doubted it though.

  “Based on what you heard, do you think there’s any basis to my theory?” Her voice jumped in anticipation, maybe hope, that she wasn’t wrong.

  “Maybe.” He pushed the button to print out the paper. The printer hummed to life. He turned his chair toward hers. The push of another button turned the lights up so she could see better. “It’s on the printer.”

  She gasped. Her heart kicked up a pace.

  Yeah, I get that a lot. Not like what you see? “Problem?”

  “N-no.” She swallowed. “No problem.”

  Liar. He had a strange desire to call her out on it. He always got the same response from people when they saw his eyes. His face. His doctors told him the scarring had been minimized as much as five surgeries could manage. He wasn’t interested in trying anymore. He couldn’t change what had happened, and though fires agitated him he’d do it again. The tightness of his skin reminded him of what was important in life. Of the gifts he’d been given. Still, it irritated him that Kieralyn had recoiled like most everyone else.

  He felt her eyes on him when she moved toward the printer. Her stockings shifted against the corduroy of the chair as she stood. Silk. Expensive.

  “Thank you.”

  Her heels clapped against the floor with precise, smooth clicks. His guess, two or maybe two-and-a-half-inch high heels. Wide for more stability. Probably a rounded or squared toe. Practical.

  She stepped through the opening in his desk and walked around him to get to the printer. Her perfume trailed behind her and mixed with the mild scent of recently colored hair. Brunette with blond highlights? Or red? Or a blonde going darker?

  Agent Beckett was a sensible, logical woman with a touch of femininity. Damn if he didn’t love that in a woman.

  Metal scraped against the countertop. She’d picked up the framed picture of Maximum. He kept it for the irony of the gift.

  “You have a dog, Cabrera?”

  “There’s a kennel in the back.”

  “Is it standard policy for NSA employees to bring pets to work?”

  He cocked his head, considering her question. She didn’t know—hadn’t realized. Interesting. She either hadn’t done enough research into him, or someone had held the truth from her. “You might say we’ve been a team for a long time.”

  “Hmm.” The frame clicked gently as she sat it back on the counter. The paper shuffled as she picked it up and began to read it. “This is a tremendous help, despite the missing pieces. I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Cabrera.”

  Satisfaction thickened her voice. Her heart accelerated with excitement. She liked what she saw. His gut tightened at the sound of her pleasure. At the idea of him being the one to provide her a different kind of pleasure. “There’s no proof one way or another.”

  “No, but I’ll get it.” She walked with determined strides until she was facing him. After a moment of silence, she touched his arm. Her fingers quivered slightly. “Thank you.”

  She’d been waiting to shake his hand. He didn’t miss that sort of thing often, but it was too late to redo. Her brief touch filled with warmth, strength and acceptance made him wish that he could. Even if she didn’t know all of his secrets.

  “No need to thank me.”

  Had he taken her hand, he could have held on a bit longer. Absorbed the sensation of her skin against his. Was her palm velvety smooth, or did she have calluses? Were there defined ridges from hours of target practice at the shooting range? She’d only brushed her fingertips across his skin. The compassion he’d sensed in her wasn’t enough to satisfy his curiosity.

  “This will go a long way to swaying my colleagues. To get them thinking along the same lines as me.” Her heart thumped harder for a beat.

  What drove her to pursue a path that no one else saw? Was it the reporter, or something else? She needed to have her opinion valued by her team. She needed their approval, but didn’t have it. It was a source of pride for her, which made him want to learn more about her. He didn’t like long conversations any more than he wanted people in his lab. But he couldn’t let her go just yet. “Do they not trust you to do the job?”

  “It’s not that. I’ve proven my physical abilities many times. They trust me to shoot a gun, they just don’t like that I can do it better than they can in some cases. They think that women belong in the home. Cooking. Cleaning. They certainly don’t approve of it when my emotions get wrapped up in a case.” She chuckled and shifted away. “I have no clue why I just admitted that to you.”

  Maybe for the same reason I want to tell you my secrets. The one that makes me want to kiss you.

  Maybe they were giving her a hard time. Then again, maybe they didn’t trust a woman with a brain. She scared them. Could be why she’d tracked him down. Why the first request for his assistance had been missing information. Facts were important, but so were instincts. If she came back to him with a recording, regardless of regulations, he would listen again.

  “I’ve isolated the voice patterns of the two men for you.” He tapped the necessary controls to burn a new CD that would have his lab seal on it, in the event she needed it in court. “One is a Floridian. The other is South American. Should you get another recording of either of the men talking, I’ll be able to match their voices. Possibly narrow down where they’re from.”

  “You can do that kind of thing?”

  “I’ve had nothing to do but listen for a very long time. I remember everything that I hear, every accent and sound. Every place has a distinct soundtrack, if you will. Those soundtracks are stored in my brain.”

  “A sound savant.” She moved to the chair she’d sat in and picked up her purse. Her clothes shifted softly as she stooped and straightened. “You should put that on your business cards.”

  “I’ll take th
at under advisement.” She was leaving. He wasn’t sure he wanted her to. He wasn’t sure if he’d try to stop her.

  “Thanks again.” She was at the door. Her hand was on the knob. “I need to get busy trying to narrow down what club they were in.”

  “If I come up with anything else of use, I’ll let you know.” He’d make something up if it meant getting her back to see him again. If he figured out which club El Dogo had been at—and if it helped her case without jeopardizing his goals—he would give her that information. He needed to check out the lay of the land first.

  Chapter Two

  “You’ve got nothing, Beckett.” Breck’s smirk was evident through the phone line as Kieralyn paced the courtyard outside Ian’s lab. “How much more of your time are you going to waste on this snipe hunt?”

  “As much as it takes to get proof one way or the other.” Irritation bubbled up. Breck was the most open-minded of the guys on her team, and he still didn’t make things easy for her. If she could admit to them that she knew Lana, the missing reporter, and was therefore able to justify her certainty that the information was accurate, some of these arguments might be curtailed. Or the admission would justify her team’s thoughts and get her tossed from the case. It was a risk she couldn’t take. She wasn’t going to trust anyone else with her friend’s life.

  “Proof is why you went to see Cabrera. You didn’t get it.”

  “Proof that I’m right, no. Neither did I get proof that I’m wrong.” And Cabrera knows more than he’s telling. His posture stiffened when he heard the mention of El Dogo. His head tilted more when he’d worked the file of sounds focused on the club. “We have more than we did.”

  “Kieralyn.” Breck’s voice dropped an octave.

  He never called her Kieralyn. To her unit she was always Beckett. “What?”

  “I like you, and you’re good at the job. I’d hate to see you do something that’s going to hurt your career.”

  Breck also never offered her a genuine sentiment. They talked trash and harassed each other about their love lives, but genuine emotion … No. She valued her instincts, and they were singing to her now. She just couldn’t name the tune. “You’re in a mellow mood. Did you get laid?”